


Hold My Heart

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Drunk Dean, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Series, Queer Sam Week, Samulet, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six summers into living in Chicago, not everything is easy, especially around the Fourth of July. Hunters they used to know stop for a visit and notice more than they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written on my phone, forgive the mistakes. 
> 
> Written for queer Sam Week on tumblr. Today's theme is favorite queer Sam moment. One of my favorites was the whole fireworks scene in 5.16; that really solidified a lot for me. So I've woven pieces of that scene and others in that episode into here. 
> 
> And I've brought back something that should have been brought back. Bitter Samulet fan forever. Forgive me if I already brought it back somewhere else. Can't remember if I did. Either way it's here now. 
> 
> Sorry to add angst into this Verse. But it's the boys. They need a little.
> 
> Written to the song "Hold My Heart" by Sara B. Listen if you wanna cry along with it.
> 
> Also, it's a big deal what Dean says at the end.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. Feel good chapter coming up for tomorrow. <3

They fuck up.

It's an argument. A fight. Two days where they slam doors and stomp out and make petty comments to each other under their breath. On day three they rift apart a little further; July sees a spike in temperature and hurt.

On the fourth, Dean gets drunk and Sam gets quiet. 

The glass bottle fairy shows up at night. Empties are collected from the floor and the coffee table. Bottle after bottle is rinsed out, bagged up, and taken out to the blue bin in the garage. The bottle fairy also leaves an Advil and a glass of water on his charge's nightstand, before he leaves to hide in his office for a few hours because right now they need space. 

On the L, Sam holds onto his briefcase, trying to stay in the moment. 

He used to be John's bottle fairy. And when Dean started to drink, he worked doubles, taking care of both of them that way--the only way. What more could he have done? Tell them to go to counseling? Drag them to AA meetings? 

A small voice in Sam's head murmurs how sad it is that after all these years, he's still left with last night's empties and hangovers that aren't his. 

Shaking the voice away, Sam takes a deep breath. Should have gone for a run instead. 

This is their sixth summer in Chicago. And this summer, of all summers, has been rough. It's all a bunch of little things, Sam knows, but they little things they were never taught how to handle. Hunters don't plan for vacations--so they certainly don't plan for knee surgeries where they'll be on bed rest for six weeks and in physical therapy for three months after. They don't plan for living wills or retirement funds or paying the mortgage off or applying for AARP cards. They don't plan to outlive their parents. 

They don't plan for long term relationships--especially not ones with their brothers.

And neither of them planned for a few old hunting contacts to track them down, visit for a few beers, and see their home. No one planned for one of the guys to notice that Sam's bed was made and Dean's wasn't and there were two slept-in spots. No one planned for someone to notice the cookbook left open on the kitchen countertop, with Dean's careful notes in the margins and Sam's obnoxious notes on post-it's over them.

Winchesters don't give two shits what other hunters do. That's their business and they've got theirs. 

And they haven't been hiding. 

Or maybe they have.

Sam sits in his office and stares out at the skyline. Work has slowed down. He got an assistant, his own secretary, and he does well for himself. Who would have thought? He's capable of adapting to an actual normal job that comes with a 401k and good health insurance. Dean is on it. It has covered all of his surgeries. It'll cover this one, too.

He can understand why Dean spent two nights wasted beyond reach. But it hurts all the same. One night he was a replica of John--silent, somber, slow. He fell asleep on the couch watching late night tv. 

The next night, he was more himself. After two packs he was loud and crass and mean. 

"I'm fucking my little brother," Dean announced to the entire house, when they were alone again. "You know what? I bet... I bet they think I, that I can't get laid. Yeah, so cause I'm so fucking busted up, I just, I just fuck you. And you, you're so fucking busted up too, that you let me. Fuck this. I could. I'm gonna. Go out right now and... I could do it."

Would he take off his ring first?

Sam puts his head down on his desk. It was just drunk talk. A third of his life has been spent interpreting drunk talk. It doesn't mean anything. Until it does. Like that one summer in Ohio, when Dean and John got shit faced together and Sam mouthed off and someone mentioned that if Sam was going to be such a pussy about it, they'd leave him behind.

And they did. The next morning, when Sam woke up, everyone was gone. They went on a hunt without him. 

Well, fuck them, Sam consoles himself now. He left them behind, too. It just took him a few years after to do it.

Who cares what the hunters saw in their home. Who cares what they think. Who cares if they think Dean is the housewife and takes it in the ass and depends on Sam to take care of him. 

Dean cares.

And because he does he might go do something stupid. Or smart. It depends on who you ask. 

That other life is visible to Sam, in the quiet solitude of his office at eight in the morning on a Saturday. The pictures of it all flip in his mind, cascading to form a knot in his square in the center of his chest. 

Dean could go out and whomever he would find--man or woman--would be lucky. Because Dean cooks well, takes care of the house, and he makes the beds. They wouldn't have to know much about him to start something.

Not like Sam, who knows it all.

Or most of it.

He can see Dean making omelets for someone else. He can see it because it's been put into his head that that should have been the optimal outcome of their lives. 

Who lives with their older brother into his fifties? Losers. Creeps.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much--all of this--if Sam wasn't also his brother's partner.

It's more complicated than blood.

Pictures for his other life aren't as easy to see. He has work. He could get a studio near it. But that's it. That's all Sam can see for himself.

What the fuck.

No. This isn't going one step further. He is Sam Winchester, and while that may not count for much in some circles, he isn't going to sit here in his office and cry about shit that isn't real. 

He doesn't care what hunters know. And that matters because there's two people in this relationship, even if it's wrong, even if it's busted up like they are. 

In zero to sixty he's blown everything way out of proportion. That's not him. 

They argue. They deflect. They write passive aggressive post-it notes to each other and grumble about the other to Mrs. Martinez. They give the silent treatment and they eat dinner alone and go to sleep alone.

And they say stupid shit to each other when they feel cornered, judged, and criticized. 

But that's it. Sam is ending this here and now. If Dean wants out--if he wants to be normal, if he wants to prove his masculinity by sleeping with someone else--fine. But god dammit, they're going to talk about their feelings first, motherfucker.

Biting the bullet, Sam pays the $20 for a can from the loop to their home. He rehearses a speech on the trip, trying not to get distracted by the pop music that the driver has on or the traffic on Taylor Street. 

Out of breath from a sprint down the corner--too impatient to wait for the light to change he paid, tipped, and left--Sam pauses outside their home.

The lawn has grown into a jungle. That gutter on the right needs to be fixed. He wants to hire someone; Dean insists that he can do it himself. The front steps need to be turned into a ramp; it'll be easier to get up in the winter.

Throwing open the front door, Sam calls out. No response. Could Dean still be sleeping? Heavy footsteps search their home in two minutes. No, not here. Not here either. Not in the backyard. Panic rises and goosebumps break out all over his arms. Never a good sign. 

Alarms ring in his head when he barrels into the garage and the Impala isn't there. 

He left. 

Sam sits on the driveway, unable to form any words, his mouth flopping open like a dying fish.

Fuck.

What...?

In only a few seconds, Sam puts together an action plan. He has a list of places to look, people to call, and things to do. He'll find Dean and make him talk. Well. He can try. But is there a point? 

Maybe... 

Dean isn't a teenager. He knows what he's doing. Maybe Sam should just be grateful for what they've had. 

Maybe that was enough.

A rumble sounds through the block. She burns more gas than any other car. But Sam knows her call.

Sleek and comforting, she pulls into the driveway, stopping a few feet away from him. She's here. And she's going to remind them of it, even when her engine is cut. 

The tell tale squeak sounds out as Dean opens and shuts the front door. 

Leaning heavily on his cane, gripping it for support, Dean moves over, trying to hide the struggle between his knee and the rest of his body. Sam has told him countless times: bad asses have canes. Besides, the top of it unhooks and a silver blade is hidden inside. It was his Christmas present last year. 

"I went to your office," Dean blurts out, his cane faltering once. "Fuck. I... I got there and you weren't..."

"I came back," Sam says, softly, looking up. "You weren't..."

"I am now. I..." Red rimmed eyes close for a second. Reopened, they've shifted from stoic to something else. Something exposed. "The first thing I saw in heaven was you," Dean punches out in one, sharp breath. His mouth tightens; too much too fast. "I... 1996. That field. And you. And me."

Roman candles had been Sam's favorites. The bottle rockets and sparklers had been cool but not as enthralling. Sam also just liked the name. What if ancient Romans had had some version of fireworks?

Staring at the Impala, Sam murmurs, "We burned that field down."

"What did you see first?" Dean asks right after, desperation in his voice. "Not brace-face. The very first thing."

Sam frowns. He shakes his head. "Dean, what..."

"Just tell me," Dean snaps, huffing. A second later he adds, "Please."

In the middle of their driveway, on a small street, years and years after the end of the world, Sam takes a deep breath and stands up. He gets to his feet, looks at the Impala, and then at his brother. 

"I saw this. I saw you mowing the lawn two years ago. On the fourth."

Dean is silent.

"Didn't know it was this at the time," Sam continues. "Thought I was watching you... You know. Without me. I didn't know... that it was our house. All I saw was the lawn."

The cane hits the pavement with a tap. 

"You are my greatest hit," Dean says, loud enough for Sam to hear, his voice rough. "I'd take that field or this lawn over anything. And... one day... I'm gonna wake up and it's gonna be one of those. Not that garden in Cleveland. Not any other place." He avoids eye contact with Sam and his shoulders tremble. "I'm your family."

"Yeah."

"It's you and me against the world."

A hundred worlds away from the original conversation, Sam answers, with a nod, "It is."

"But I'm more than that," Dean says, making eye contact. "I'm more than family."

Another nod.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

What would have years between them been like if either of them had been quicker to say those words to each other?

Dean holds his right hand out.

"I love it, Sam."

The amulet is passed over.

"And I love you."

 

Dean still has his ring on.

Sam does too.


End file.
